


Survive

by yeaka



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: F/F, Ficlet, PWP, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8916739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Zelda finally moves them along.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “celebratory sex” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/149673766130/fic-bingo).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Zelda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They’re both still weary from the battle, breathing hard and slow in their steps, and Impa is the one to close the door behind them, because the door is heavy, and Zelda looks on the verge of collapse. It’s a relief to be safe in her bedroom again, where she can finally lift the crown from her head and set it on the table. Impa moves automatically to help untie the golden armour that lines her shoulders, then removes the hard gauntlets along her forearms. Zelda climbs gingerly out of her boots and shimmies out of her second skirt, setting more of it along the table—there are more battles every day, and the time between grows less and less, making a compelling argument for leaving one’s armour out in easy reach. Impa remembers the days when she would studiously return each piece to its place, and they could afford to take their time outfitting Zelda in it again. Now they both leave it where it lies, and Zelda takes her long hair over her shoulder to finger-comb loose the braid. The sunshine-yellow locks catch the light of the setting sun, glowing orange-purple through the window. Impa hopes that tonight they’ll have at least a few hours of _rest_ ; Zelda badly needs it.

Zelda reaches for the corset ties of her dress next, unlacing the lavender ribbon between her breasts. Impa turns politely away.

“You don’t...” Zelda starts, her voice hushed. She doesn’t finish the thought, and Impa doesn’t risk looking around in her curiosity. She can hear Zelda release a weary sigh, and then the rustle of fabric hitting the floor. Zelda will be bare now, naked from head to foot, ready for the silken white nightgown she usually retires in. Impa walks to the wardrobe and plucks it from its hanger, holding it out behind her. She hears Zelda’s quiet footsteps coming closer, but the hand that lies atop hers doesn’t take the dress.

Zelda lowers Impa’s hand to her side and murmurs, “You don’t have to look away.”

Impa can feel her cheeks heating and tries to repress the silly notion—her skin, unfortunately, isn’t dark enough to hide her flush. She says nothing, but Zelda’s hand lifts to her shoulder and gently turns her around—Impa obeys the silent command; she’s never denied Zelda anything. 

But she doesn’t know about _this_. She tries to let her eyes fix on Zelda’s lovely face and not the rest of her gorgeous body. Zelda is, in all things, so wholly _beautiful_. It seems absurd to Impa that anyone dares stand against her. She whispers, “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

With respect. Adoration. _Desire_. Impa schools her features flat and gives away nothing. She dearly loves her beloved princess, but all in Zelda’s service do. And it wouldn’t be right for Impa to... “I apologize,” she mutters, even though she can see that’s not the answer Zelda’s looking for.

Zelda lifts up on her toes, devoid of the normal heel of her boots, and places both hands on Impa’s shoulders. The contact ignites like fire along Impa’s skin. Zelda tilts and brings their lips together—Impa’s part more in surprise than anything. Somehow, she knew Zelda would feel so _soft_. But Zelda slinks back down after, eyes intoxicating, voice imploring. “The darkness grows stronger with every passing moment, Impa. It would be foolish to deny ourselves what little pleasures are left in the world.” 

Impa’s tongue is thick in her throat. She says, “We cannot lose under your rule.” Zelda dons a small smile, the radiance of it staggering. “We won today.”

Zelda purrs, “So let us celebrate,” and lifts again to wrap her arms around Impa’s shoulders, dragging Impa down—Impa can’t resist the tantalizing promise. Zelda surges into another kiss, this time fiercer, hotter, her entire body arching forward, and even through Impa’s own clothes and patches of armour, she can feel _everything_. The gentle slope of Zelda’s breasts flatten against her chest, Zelda’s trim stomach aligning with her own, Zelda’s full hips grinding into hers in a sudden roll that makes Impa dizzy with _want_. She doesn’t know where to put her hands. They lift to Zelda’s waist, ready to push Zelda away, but she _can’t_. Zelda nips lightly at Impa’s bottom lip, and Impa opens again, letting Zelda’s tongue slip inside.

She had no idea Zelda had such... _talent_. She kisses as well as she does everything, stealing Impa’s breath away with one skillful twist of her tongue after another, her arms holding Impa in while she grinds their bodies together, and it’s all Impa can do not to _throw Zelda down right here and take her on the floor_. This is the sort of thing Impa dreams about but never dares to do; she doesn’t feel worthy; the fact that they might die tomorrow isn’t excuse enough; but maybe, she wonders with awe, Zelda has wanted this too, and kept the proper distance of a princess, only to finally decide that even rulers must be _loved_.

The kiss stretches, lingers, becomes another and another, Impa completely lost in Zelda’s mouth, until her fingers are digging tight into Zelda’s plush hips, marveling at the softness of her skin. Then Zelda steps back, dragging Impa with her, and they stumble on, and Zelda falls backwards and pulls Impa along, hitting the mattress—Impa hikes up on one knee to crawl onto it, looping a hand under Zelda’s slender waist and dragging her along it. Sideways in the white bed, Impa fills Zelda’s mouth with tongue and grinds her down into the sheets. It seems impossible that she resisted as long as she did. Zelda’s fingers thread into her hair, dislodging the tight bun at the back, and she buries one in Zelda’s gold locks. The other runs down Zelda’s side, dipping between Zelda’s legs, and she hesitates, but Zelda deserves _relief_ , and Zelda gasps between kisses, “Impa, _please_ —”

She cups Zelda’s crotch more earnestly than she means to—Zelda lets out a needy cry and bucks up into her. Impa wishes she’d thought to remove her own gauntlets and gloves; her fingers are bare, but her palm can’t feel enough. She kneads Zelda anyway, rubbing the smooth slit and sparse tufts of blonde hair. Zelda is particularly warm there, and Impa can already feel how damp she is. When Impa dares to crook one finger between the blushing folds, Zelda keens and starts to tremble. Impa kisses her more, harder, devours her, she tastes _so good_...

The little hole Impa finds is slick and fluttering, easy to push one blunt fingertip into, though it makes Zelda squirm all the wilder. The tight pressure is exquisite, and Impa enjoys ever second of worming her finger in. She twists to stroke at Zelda’s velvety walls, then withdraws to push in again, working in and out, gently making love to Zelda’s channel while she palms the outer lips, thumb digging in to find the little nub of her clit—when Impa flicks it, Zelda moans lewdly and arches up, perked nipples sliding along Impa’s smaller chest. Impa forces herself to end the slew of kisses just so she can get some distance and _stare_ at the beauty before her. There is no prettier woman in all the world. She’s sure of it. 

She could play with Zelda for hours. She would be quite content to bury into Zelda’s body and explore every inch with her tongue, nuzzle into each crevice and grind between her legs, but Zelda’s already glistening in a thin sheen of sweat from the battle, hard-fought and hard-won. Her breath is ragged, harried, her voice strained as she lets out one moan after another. Impa delivers every bit of pleasure she can. Zelda deserves to feel nothing but _good_. Impa leans back down to recapture her mouth, because it’s impossible to stay away, and Zelda clutches at Impa’s clothes for dear life and kisses her just as intensely. 

With a final cry, Zelda suddenly spasms, body tensing before a warm rush of fluid envelops Impa’s fingers; she can feel Zelda reaching her peak. Impa wrenches up just in time to watch the orgasm twist ecstasy across Zelda’s face, a heated cry lingering in the air, and Impa fingers Zelda right through it. 

Then Zelda collapses in the sheets, panting harder than ever but wearing a serene, satiated look. Impa begrudgingly withdraws her hand. 

“Take off your clothes,” Zelda mumbles tiredly, pulling at the rope around Impa’s middle. “Your turn...”

Impa would love nothing more. But she can see how much Zelda’s lids droop, how spent Zelda is. “Later,” she promises. “You’re tired.”

“I’m fine,” Zelda sighs, reaching up, but Impa catches both of her hands and pins them down against the mattress.

“You need rest, princess. It was a long battle.”

Zelda smiles. “And we won.”

“Yes, we did.” Then she bends down to place a tender kiss against Zelda’s forehead, and Zelda hums happily but doesn’t move. 

It’s easy for Impa to scoop her up and pull the blankets away, then place her back down with her head in the pillows, tucking her in afterwards. She looks like a goddess and dreamily murmurs, “Tomorrow...”

“Tomorrow is another day.” But Zelda’s eyes are already closed, breathing evening out, and she might be asleep without hearing. 

Impa pulls up a chair and sets in to guard her princess through another night, her own dreams already made.


End file.
